


Perchance To Dream

by anonymous_member



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Dissociation, Eventual Smut, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Original Character(s), Neil Perry (Dead Poets Society) Lives, Post-Canon Fix-It, References to Hamlet, References to Shakespeare, Reunions, Theatre
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25744897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_member/pseuds/anonymous_member
Summary: Neil Perry fails his suicide attempt but manages to kill the larger part of himself. He gives up completely and follows his father's wishes to become a doctor. He manages to fast-track his education and graduates from med school a few years earlier than anticipated. After receiving a residency position at a hospital in New York he is convinced by a coworker to attend the local Shakespeare festival. The last thing he expected was to recognize Horatio."He stops for a moment, hand hovering just centimeters from Todd’s face. He closes his eyes and allows himself to feel the crushing, burning weight of the yearning he has carried, feels it buzz in his fingertips, heart pounding with anticipation.And then Todd closes the gap and brings Neil’s face to his and everything collides in the most perfect way. Like molecules in a star, he is shattered and fused and rearranged all at once, becoming something new and strange and volatile."
Relationships: Todd Anderson & Neil Perry, Todd Anderson/Neil Perry
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	1. Living as a Ghost

Everybody acts like dying is a back and white thing. Neil had heard the lie so many times that: there is only one certainty - death. That wasn’t quite right though. He wishes it was.  
His father had gone to bed nearly two hours ago. He had sat with a gun in his mouth until his tongue went numb against the barrel. He couldn’t pull the trigger. It was too loud, too sudden, the sort of thing that needed hot blood to be done. He couldn’t stomach the mess, the indignity. The stars blink at him from behind the wispy drifting clouds. He blinks back. His fingers have been numb for a while, the aching dull burn eating it’s way up his limbs, bleeding through his back like ink through tissue paper. It had stopped snowing a while ago. He misses being able to feel each snowflake burn his face with its chill. His crown has been scratching his skull for a long while, but he doubts he could raise a hand to adjust it at this point anyway. Yes, this way is better. It’s so quiet, so restful.  
He closes his eyes and swears he feels the weight in his chest drag him into the earth. It swallows his fragile body and warms him in the magma. It flows in his veins like honey and fire and leaves him buzzing and blind and numb.  
Not much else survives his illness. Nearly a week lost to fever and weakness and lack of oxygen. He’s told by a nurse that he has severe bronchitis. Was that yesterday? Or maybe this morning? He had only blinked in response, barely strong enough to move his chest up and down on his own. The crackle of his breath lulls him to sleep. His limbs still feel fuzzy, far too heavy to lift. There are times that his mother’s voice seems to drift through the haze, sometimes followed by the deep rumble of his father’s, other times followed by silence.  
Hours, maybe days, later his mother is holding his hand. Her fingers are cold against his burning skin.  
“You almost died.” She whispers, half grateful, half horrified.  
‘No.’ he wants to respond, ‘I did.’  
When he had sunk into the earth he had left the larger part of himself there. Puck’s grave now resided in his backyard. A suburban cemetery for a single ghost. He wonders if anything will be able to grow there when spring comes. He hopes not.  
The first time he speaks again it is hardly a whisper. His mother is by his side, his hand clutched tightly in hers. He watches with dead eyes as she strokes a thumb across his knuckles.  
“When do I leave for military school?” He whispers, lungs crackling loudly as he fights to re-inflate them again.  
His mother drops his hand, looks at him with glassy eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. She gasps between her sobs. She nearly screams in distress. He watches on, his heart monitor still calling out the steady march of life. He knows his chest should ache with her pain, but it doesn’t. He tunes her out and falls back into the comforting embrace of unconsciousness.  
In the following weeks he manages to spend more and more time conscious. At some point he’s moved back home. His fever gives way to night sweats and then begins to fade completely. His lungs still crackle and ache, but it becomes a comfort.  
One night his mother sneaks into his room while he sits up, staring listlessly out the window. Sitting up makes it easier to breathe. With trembling hands she tucks a few envelopes under the covers next to him. He looks down at them, then up at her. He knows who wrote them. He knows he should be crying for joy that she’s delivered them despite his father’s wishes. He knows he should be buzzing with excitement at the thought of reading them. But he isn’t. He blinks at her again, gathers the letters, and hands them back to her without a word.  
Her tears should have made him hurt, all of this should make him hurt, but nothing can reach him anymore. He buried the parts that hurt and loved and wanted. He finds that he’s only… relieved. He watches as his mother takes the envelopes from him, watches as her hands now shake with fury rather than fear or sadness. She tucks the letters into a drawer of his desk where he used to keep pressed leaves, but that has laid vacant for years now. He sees that there are other letters next to the new additions. She straightens up from her task and looks him in the eye, burning with anger where she stands. Distantly, he’s aware that it’s not him she’s angry with. She asks if he needs anything. There’s something of a plea in her voice. He shakes his head.  
He doesn’t see her again for a few days, but he doesn’t mind. He just pretends he doesn’t hear her crying or yelling at his father. He eats once a day, answers his father’s questions with as little words as are needed, and pretends to sleep when his mother begins slipping in his room at night to add letters to the drawer. He doesn’t so much as touch the handle.  
It’s cloudy the afternoon his father slips into his room, wringing his hands anxiously in a way that Neil has never seen before. It’s odd, but not concerning, really.  
“It’s been long enough now, if we don’t get you back into school you’ll be behind your peers.” He clears his throat uncomfortably, “With your, eh, condition, military school won’t likely be an option. I’ve found an academy that will do nicely, though. You can’t return to Welton, obviously, so your mother and I think it best if you get some distance from it. There’s a school in upstate New York that has a specialty in pre-med programs.”  
He pauses to look at Neil, waiting for some kind of comment. Neil has none.  
“So, erm, you leave in two weeks to start the spring semester.”  
“Okay,” Neil responds flatly, keeping his voice carefully even so as not to come off as hostile.  
“You’ll need to pack a bit more than you’re used to, you’ll only be coming home for semester breaks.”  
“Okay,” Neil repeats.  
“Mm” his father grunts with a nod. He looks at Neil, something unfamiliar flashing in his eyes for a moment before he turns away to leave without another word.  
Neil breathes out a sigh once he’s gone. It’s hard to convince himself that all of this is real. It all feels so… distant. Like he’s living life through a window, a thin but clouded layer of glass cutting him off from everything. He knows it’s not healthy, that it should probably be concerning, but he can’t feel anything but gratitude for it. If nothing else, it’s safe. It’s comfortable. It doesn’t hurt. 

\---

Neil accepts his fate with ease. When he gets on the bus to leave for school he feels no trepidation about leaving everything he’s ever known. His mother cries, like always, but he hardly notices. In no time he’s crossed state lines and he’s gone. There might have been a time when he called this ‘free’.  
The other boys find him dull, but respectable, once he arrives. It quickly becomes apparent that he has no interest in making friends, and he’s left to his own devices. He excels in his classes easily, glad for the distraction offered by his heavy course-load. He’s put into an honors program, set to fast track through his classes. He’ll graduate a year early at this rate, one of his professors crows happily. His father calls him, tells him that he and his mother are proud. Neil thanks him, and answers his mother’s many frantic questions.  
University and med school are much the same. He finishes his biology major in three years, med school in one and a half, and gains the nickname “The Computer.”  
His visits home are short and infrequent. He carefully avoids the drawer of his desk that his mother had paid so much care to. He lets his father parade him around at dinners, pretends to smile when his father suggests he court the daughters of family friends, entertains his mother’s many careful questionings, pretending he doesn’t notice when she speaks to him as if he’ll break. Every time he speaks she seems to hold her breath, hoping that some semblance of her son will leak through. She deflates every time she fails to find him, so she’s practically crumpled by the end of every conversation. He makes a point to look busy when they’re left alone to save her the trouble of hoping again.  
His life is incredibly, mercifully, empty.  
It’s winter again when he returns home to break the happy news to his parents. He’s been accepted for a residency program in New York. He begins in the spring. His father had clapped him on the shoulder with a smile, his mother had made a pot roast, and they’d had a good old fashioned family dinner to celebrate. They had both gone to bed now, but Neil stood at the window that faced the backyard.  
Fresh snow had begun to fall, joining the untouched blanket that lay over the lawn. If he stares long enough, he can convince himself that the shadows over his grave are just a bit darker than everywhere else. It was so much like that night. A part of him itches to go out and finish the job, but he holds himself back. With a shake of his head, he turns to go back upstairs. He stops when he catches the eye of his own reflection against the darkened glass. He looks older now. His eyes have deep shadows beneath them, his crow’s feet have faded and lent their depth to the worry lines on his forehead. His skin seems paler, perhaps even grayer than it had been that night.  
It seems fitting.  
He goes upstairs and does his best to sleep and forget, ignoring the way the untouched drawer of his desk seems to itch against his consciousness, begging to be scratched. He holds out and waits for merciful sleep to take him.

\---  
Present  
\---

“Hey, Stoneman!” Matt yells from across the locker room. Neil is almost used to his shenanigans now, and the new nickname.  
“Yes, Matt?” He asks, ensuring that his socks were folded together so that he didn’t lose one again.  
“Are you coming to the fest with us?”  
“Us?” Neil asks. He also wants to know what “fest” Matt was talking about, but it’s best to unpack Matt’s ramblings one piece at a time.  
“Yeah, it’s me, Nicole, Sergio, and maybe Damien.” Matt opens his own locker that was conveniently right next to Neil’s.  
“And this ‘fest’?” Neil asks, fully aware that this is the group of residents that have been trying tirelessly to get Neil to bond with them for over a month now.  
“The Shakespeare and theatre festival at central park. We’re going to see Hamlet tonight. It’s supposed to be a traveling group that does this all across America.”  
Neil pauses for a moment, remembering that precious night when he played Puck. He takes a moment to realize that he’s essentially frozen mid-conversation and he begins searching through his excuses for a response.  
“Oh, that sounds fun, but I-”  
“-Let me guess,” Matt interrupts, “You need to do laundry, or you’re tired, or you ‘have a prior commitment’?”  
Neil just stares at him, dumbfounded.  
“Look,” Matt continues with a smile, “I know you don’t like us or whatever, but you really need to do something other than work for a bit, man. You’re like a zombie.”  
“Don’t like-?” Neil is practically reeling from the conversation. How can someone sound so polite and yet seem so offended?  
“It’s no secret, Perry. You avoid us like the plague.”  
“I mean no offense, it’s not you guys-”  
“Yeah, yeah. Okay. Don’t hurt yourself trying to open up. Just join us for tonight, it’ll be worth you while. Surely you’ve read some Shakespeare in your day?”  
“Yeah.” Neil tries not to show his hesitance, “Yeah, I’ve- I like Shakespeare.”  
“Then come on, Stoneman, you can ride shotgun. I’ll drive.” Matt claps him on the shoulder and strides out of the locker room, duffel bag slung carelessly over one shoulder.  
Neil stares after him for a moment before he manages to catch his wits again. He scrambles his stuff into his duffle and runs to catch up with Matt’s receding back. Apparently he needs to fix things with his coworkers. Besides, even if it’s bad, at least it’s a distraction.


	2. My dear, Horatio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil joins a coworker for a production of Hamlet in the park, but he's thrown for a loop, when he recognizes Horatio.

The park is teeming with people as the sun finds refuge behind the jagged skyline. Booths and vendors line the walkways, small groups of acrobats or other such performers causing small blockades every twenty yards or so. Neil regrets having agreed to come almost immediately upon arrival. 

“Our play starts once it’s properly dark, so if we hurry we’ll be able to sit in the bleachers rather than the lawn.” Matt instructs him, taking a hold of his sleeve and leading him through the crowd. 

Through some form of navigation unknown to Neil, Matt is able to weave easily through the many crowded walkways. Neil does his best to avoid getting caught on strangers or tripping over people's feet, and to his merit, he's mostly successful.

“Just through here,” Matt pulls him over to a shadowy treeline, “It’s a shortcut that comes out right on the amphitheatre lawn.”

Neil only has a moment to consider the fact that this looks like the beginning of how one gets murdered by a serial killer before Matt is again pushing ahead, Neil in tow. 

Sure enough, the woods open up to the back of the stage, actors milling about, toting props and costumes about as they prepare.

“This way,” Matt takes hold of his arm, leading him around the side of the stage and toward the set of metal bleachers that were obviously put up specifically for the occasion, “We should try and sit in the mid-range. We don’t want to be too close to the front in case they throw things or drag people out of the audience like last year, but you can’t see much from the top.”

Well that’s… mildly concerning, but Neil just nods along, doing as told. He pulls out his phone once they take a seat, scrolling through the medical journals, clicking on whatever articles catch his eye. Apparently, someone is doing another study on Marie Antoinette Syndrome, but this time with a chemical approach.

“You’re kidding, right?” Neil looks up to find Matt staring at him with what looks like a mixture of fear and pity. He looks like he’s been watching for a while.

“What?”

“You’re doing work related stuff,  _ still _ . Do you even have anything else on that phone? Netflix? Games? Twitter?”

“I- no, not really.”

“Incredible” Matt mutters, though it sounds like he finds it anything  _ but _ incredible.

“It’s not that weird.”

“It  _ is _ that weird. I knew we should have called you terminator for your nickname.”

“Not very original, though.”

“What?” Matt looks at him like he just said he pole dances as a side gig.

“They called me ‘The Computer’ in med school. There were rumors that I didn’t eat or sleep.”

“Well, do you?”

“It’s a secret,” Neil answers flatly, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

“Pff,” Matt chuckles beside him, knocking Niel’s shoulder with his own, “Who knew you had a sense of humor? A bit dry for my tastes, but hey.”

Neil just gives him a tight smile, tucking his phone away as the announcer comes out in front of the curtains, dressed like some kind of medieval hooligan.

A hush falls over the crowd at his entrance. As they were talking people had filled in around them, spilling onto the lawn in front of the stage.

“Hello and good evening! Tonight the West Church Shakespeare Company is proud to present ‘The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.’ Please keep your mobile devices off, and your heckling to a minimum.” A small laugh floats up from the audience, “Without further ado- about nothing- enjoy!” He does a flourish, exiting off to the right.

Muttering erupts again, before a spotlight falls on the curtain seam, and they are parted, revealing a man dressed as some sort of guard. 

“Who’s there?” a call echoes from behind him.

“Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself!” The guard calls back.

“Long live the king!” The voice now reveals it’s owner as a man in a similar dress, approaching from behind, glancing about as though he can’t see very well.

“Bernardo?”

“He.”

“You come most carefully upon your hour.” They finally turn to each other, having found each other in whatever darkness or fog the audience was to believe was there.

“Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco.” the approaching guard lays a hand on the first guard’s- francisco’s shoulder.

“For this relief, much thanks. ‘Tis bitter cold, and I am sick at heart.”

Bernardo nods understandingly, “Have you had a quiet guard?”

“Not a mouse stirring.”

“Well, good night, then. If you do meet Horatio and marcellus, the rivals of my watch, bid them make haste-”

“I think I hear them. Stand ho! Who is there?”

Neil’s breath catches in his throat as Horatio enters the stage. He would know him in death, there’s no way, it can’t be… 

“Are you okay?” Matt leans over, his face a mask of concern, “You like you’ve seen a ghost and we haven’t even gotten to that part yet.”

“I- I-” Neil can’t form words, he’s only partially aware of the fact that he suddenly can’t remember how to breathe.

“Dude?” 

“I- I think I know him- knew him.” Neil corrects himself, watching with rapt attention as Horatio delivers his lines in a voice that feels like a favorite song Niel had forgotten knowing. His voice is deeper now, and it does not shake, but it is him. It’s _ him _ .

“Friends to this ground-” His voice is air to the drowning.

“-and liegemen to the dane!” His fellow actor, Marcellus, calls.

“Who is it?” Matt hisses, squinting at the stage as though he could puzzle it out through willpower alone.

“It’s Todd-” Neil whispers back, eyes never leaving the stage, “He’s Horatio.”

“Todd? You’ve never mentioned any Todd-”

“No- no I haven’t, not for a long, long time.” Neil is transfixed, hanging on every syllable, every movement.

“Hmm” Matt huffs a little bewildered laugh at him, turning back to the stage, “I guess even The Computer has to have a past.”

Neil doesn’t comment.

\---

Neil’s heart is racing, tears pricking at his eyes. He hasn’t looked away, save to blink, the entire production. He’s seen Matt stare at him in his peripheral quite a few times, seemingly amazed as Neil laughed and smiled, and even nearly cried a few times. It must be like watching a dog drive a car.

This is it, act five, the end.

“I am dead, Horatio,” Hamlet calls, stumbling to the ground before To- Horatio, “Wretched queen, adieu! You that look pale and tremble at this chance, that are but mutes or audience to this act, had I but time- as this fell sergeant, Death, is strict in his arrest- O, I could tell you- but… let it be. Horatio, I am dead; thou livest; report me and my cause aright to the unsatisfied.”

“Never believe it,” Horatio cradles Hamlet in his lap, real tears catching the light’s before they fall like silver to the stage floor. With a jolt, Neil realizes why this grief must seem so real. He throws the thought out as fast as it comes, “I am more an antique Roman than a Dane. Here’s yet some liquor left-”

Neil’s tears spill over now, horror twisting his features as he watches Hamlet wrestle the cup away from him.

“-As thou art a man, Give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I’ll have it. O’ good Horatio,” Hamlet’s voice breaks, “What a wounded name- thing standing thus unknown- shall live behind me!” He cups Horatio’s face, looking him in the eyes, “If thou did ever hold me in thy heart, absent thee from felicity a while, and in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, to tell my story.”

Neil fights the urge to hide his face in his hands, now sobbing silently, but openly. Matt turns to him, seemingly unsure what to do.

“Neil, are you okay?”

Neil shakes his head, no longer listening as a fake shot rings out, as Hamlet delivers his last lines, as fortinbras storms Elsinore.

“-He has my dying voice,” Hamlet croaks, “So tell him, with th’ occurents, more or less, which has solicited- the rest is silence.” Hamlet goes still, Horatio sobbing and shaking now as he holds the body, numb to the chaos ensuing around him.

“N- now cracks a noble heart,” Horatio’s, no,  _ Todd’s _ voice is rough with emotion as he gently holds Hamlet’s forehead to his own, “Goodnight, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest-”

Neil lurches from his seat, shoving through the audience until he reaches the end of the bleachers. He lowers himself down, turning and sitting against the scaffolding, tears running down his face like rain in a torrent. He muffles the sound of his sobs with a hand over his mouth, trying not to choke on them.

After all this time, after all his careful vacancy, it all crumbles in a moment. Olds wounds bloom fresh in his chest, demanding to be felt. Love that never really left rearing up again. Suddenly, he’s seventeen again, yearning and aching and alive with love and hope and bitter distaste for what the world is allowed to be. Suddenly he’s laying awake, wanting to hold another seventeen-year-old’s hand, promising himself that he’ll have the courage tomorrow, night after night. Suddenly, he’s fallen back into himself.

A thunderous cheer erupts from the audience as the play ends. Neil quickly scoops himself up from the ground, wiping his tears away with the scratchy wool of his jacket, ignoring the fact that his eyes are red and swollen, and that he  _ definitely _ looks terrible. He takes off through the crowd, ignoring the way he’s shoves too and fro as he fights against the great exodus of people, all eager to move onto the next thing. Distantly, Neil thinks he hears someone call his name, but he ignores it, fighting his way forward. 

He breaks from the crowd in a huff, scanning the stage for any sign of Todd. When he sees none, he charges around, ignoring the looks he gets from the crew as he runs behind the stage as though he belongs there.

“Todd!” He yells into the crowd of milling people, “Todd!”

“Sir, who are-”

“Doesn’t matter,” Neil answers, ignoring as a stagehand tries to stop him, “I need to know where Todd Anderson is,  _ right now. _ ”

“I- okay,” They seem confused, but do as asked, “He’s just over there, wearing the-”

Neil catches sight of his hair, dashing off into the crowd again, his face breaking into a wild grin. 

He grabs him by the shoulder, surprised for a moment that his hand doesn’t go through him.

“Todd, it’s me, Neil, from Welston, I-” Todd whips around, freezing as he takes Neil in, face a mask of stone.

“I- I had to find you, I- I-”

“It’s… you-” Todd whispers, sounding almost… hurt? Oh, well, that would make sense…

“I- I know, it’s a surprise, I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have- well, I didn’t really think this through-”

Todd interrupts him, pulling him into a crushing embrace.

“It’s true,” he whispers into Neil’s hair, holding tighter, “They said you were fine. They said you moved away, and I  _ tried _ to reach you, Neil, I promise I tried  _ so hard- _ ”

Guilt twists like a knife in Neil’s gut.

“I’m- I’m alright, really, I’m fine.” Neil pats Todd’s back, he can swear there are tears dripping onto his shoulder, “I’m just so happy to see you, I never expected-” 

“I know,” Todd pulls away, wiping tears from his own eyes now, “Me, an actor? It’s funny really, I- well- anyway- can I take you for some coffee?”

Neil blinks at all the sudden changes of direction, but he doesn’t complain.

“Right now?” He asks.

“If you’re free, then yes, please.”

“I- yes. Of course, I’m free. Yes, let’s- let’s go-”

“Come on, then,” Todd hooks an arm through Neil’s, leading them off into the night, still in costume.


End file.
